


Dave Evans and the Sundance Kid

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: It was closing in on five am, and Edge knew he should have given up and gone to bed a while back.Set around Joshua Tree era.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is fluff! So I was working on Nexus, and I went looking through my files for some notes when I came across this poor little section that was once a part of Pictures of Matchstick Men before I decided it was shit and also didn't fit into the story any longer. Tonight, it was still shit but there was some potential there, so I rewrote about 70% of it and here we are. I hope you enjoy :)

It was closing in on five am, and Edge knew he should have given up and in a while back. And yet the guitar was still in his arms, he’d been strumming the same few chords for god knows how long, and he still just could not get the damn thing to _sing_. The melody was up there in his brain, so fucking simple, so easy and lovely and perfect and _easy_ , and yet it was so late it was early and he wasn’t any closer to getting there than he had been an hour ago.

  
Earlier, Bono had been right there with him, chattering away on one too many spirits and sitting intently with his eyes closed as he listened, accompanying the melody with a string of garbled singing that might have sounded strange to anyone else, but to Edge it was the start of something new, and they were both in this together. They always had been, and it was always the same with a new song, when he played it in those later hours; after the conception but not quite at the birth, feeling it out, discovering it, crafting it into something bigger than the both of them, close to perfect but nowhere near, and as Bono listened and learned it was as if they could read each other's mind. They knew.

They just knew.

  
Or they didn't.

  
Tonight, they hadn't, and it was fine. They would get there. Maybe. He hoped, otherwise he was likely to lose his mind.

But they had been close, he was sure, and after the singing had come the silence, a different sort of silence that only Bono knew how to hold. With his eyes closed and a glass in his hand, he'd listened and smiled, looking like he belonged on film as he arched his back, his neck, in such a way that Edge lost the song completely and found it in the pale stretch of skin not two inches from Bono's jawline. Soft skin, warm, damp to touch, to taste, and as he often did, Edge wondered if Bono laughed like that with her.

  
He was on the couch now, laid out in a way that Edge knew he would regret in the morning, and if Edge had to be honest, he had spent most of the past twenty minutes watching Bono snore. With his face slack, it was like looking into a time capsule of ten years gone, when Edge had looked across the schoolyard in a way that only a teenage boy could look - as if they had no apathy for every or anything that they might cast their gaze upon - and glanced away only when Bono turned his way.

  
It barely felt like ten years, though it had been even more. And yet, somehow, it felt like a lifetime had passed. He wasn't sure when exactly they had grown up, and maybe it had happened so gradually that he'd barely noticed, but he was sure, in Bono's case if not his own, that there was still plenty of those days of wonder left in them. And it came out in the most wonderful ways, sometimes. Other times, not so much.

  
“What’re you doing?”

  
Edge blinked. Bono was regarding him blearily, neck craning for a more comfortable position.

  
“Just thinking.”

  
“Mmm.”

  
Almost immediately, Bono’s eyelids began to droop, and Edge decided that was probably enough for the day. The night. Closing in on the morning, and maybe Bono had the right idea. It was just a song.

  
It was only a song.

  
He set down his guitar gently and shuffled on his knees over to the couch. “Bono? Bono.”

  
“What?” Bono grumbled. His eyes remained firmly shut.

  
“Come on, you stay like this and you’ll be feeling it tomorrow.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Edge sighed. “Come on, it’s late.”

  
“I’m fucking _tired_ , Edge.”

  
It took another five minutes or so of cajoling, but eventually Bono was on the bed, stretching out even as he pulled the covers around him. Whose bed? Edge's bed. It was his bed. He'd forgotten until then, exactly which room they had fallen into. He'd gotten caught up, in so many things.

  
“Edge, come _oonn_ ,” Bono whined. Clearly, Edge was taking too long, and such a complaint could be applied to so many things in their lives, if Bono had any say in it. Mostly. Sometimes, he asked for just a few minutes more.

  
Rolling his eyes, Edge turned off the light before climbing in next to Bono. “You know, when it's my bed I think I can take as long as I like to climb on into it. My bed, Bono.”

  
“Sharing is caring, The Edge. This ain’t our first rodeo.”

  
It was a valid point, though Edge did have to question one thing. "Rodeo, B?"

  
Even in the dark of the room, Edge knew Bono was shrugging. "You've had that whole cowboy thing going for you recently, I don't know."

  
It was another valid point, Edge supposed. In theory. "Fair enough."

  
The sunrise was beginning to peek through the curtains, and when they both fell silent, Edge was sure it was for the best. Though as he watched the room slowly turn from dark to something warmer, Edge found himself wide awake. His eyes were burning but his mind was racing, so fast, so haphazard, that he almost missed Bono's sharp intake of breath.

  
He didn't miss the little giggle that followed it, nor the quiet little murmur that came after:

  
"Ride 'em, Cowboy."


End file.
